


Frozen

by archipelago



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Ice Skating AU, M/M, figure skating AU, i can't believe i'm actually writing this, skatelock, the one in which Sherlock and John are figure skaters, yes seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:17:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a former pairs skater who is trying to make a comeback as a singles competitor.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is a rising star trying to win his second national title.</p><p>There's only one spot for a British man at the Olympics.  Who will win?</p><p> </p><p>(yes, a figure skating AU)<br/>(yes, I agree I'm crazy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock. If I did, I probably wouldn't write fanfiction where I make them figure skaters.
> 
> I also could think of no title besides "Frozen." I gave it some good thought, but nope. Nada. It has nothing to do with the Disney film of the same name. Just thought I ought to mention that as well.

So, figure skating has a lot of technical terms. This chapter isn't so much a chapter as me telling you a bit about the sport and what sort of terms you might run into. I'll probably add on to this as the story goes, so it might get kind of lengthy. If there's ever a term you see and do not understand, please feel free to ask me for an explanation.

Also, I should mention that I am American. I googled information about the British figure skating system, and a lot of it seems to translate. If I get something wrong, and some British figure skater out there notices, send me a message, and I will fix it.

\--

First, you should know about figure skating competitions. There are several kinds, including international competitions sponsored by the International Skating Union (ISU), national competitions, and then rink/club competitions. International competitions are obviously open to skaters of all nationalities, and include things like the World Championships, the European Championships, and the Grand Prix Circuit (plus others).

The Grand Prix Circuit is briefly mentioned in the first chapter, so I'll explain a bit. The GP is a series of competitions held throughout the world. Skaters must be invited to attend, and are (typically) placed into two events. Skaters earn points based on how well they place at these events, and those skaters with the highest totals compete at the Grand Prix Final.

National competitions are pretty self explanatory. They are held to determine the national champion of the country. Countries with a lot of skaters have qualifying events for the nationals--skaters first must place in the top five at a regional competition, then at a sectional competition. Those skaters then go on to nationals. I couldn't find any information about a regionals/sectionals for British figure skating. They may not exist, but they do in this story. 

Some skaters are given what is known as a "bye" to go straight to nationals without having to go to regionals or sections. These are typically skaters who placed highly in the previous year's competition.

Rink/club competitions are held by individuals rinks or clubs. They are the small-time competitions. They are also hella fun, and you should go watch one if a club in your area ever holds a competition.

Everyone enjoys the thought of those big competitions you see on tv, where once a skater is done with their program they go to the Kiss and Cry (the area where they wait for their scores) and have their score announced across a loudspeaker. Really, though, the televised competitions are the only competitions that have that system. At any competition sectionals and below, they have a wall of scores where they post a print out of the judges rankings.

\--

There are four types of figure skating competition (technically five, but we're not going to talk about synchronized skating).

Singles has two branches - ladies and men. These skaters compete solo, and their competitions have two main components: a short program and a long program.

Pairs skating is when a man and a woman skate together. They, too, have a short and long program. Pairs skating includes jumps, throws (where the man throws his partner across the ice so she can perform a jump), and spectacular lifts. It is also INCREDIBLY DANGEROUS. Turns out that lifting a woman above your head with one hand and then skating is _really hard_. There have been some awful injuries from pairs skating.

Trust me: don't google it.

Ice dance is the final type of figure skating. It's based on ballroom dancing and is again performed by a couple. There are no jumps or throws allowed in ice dancing, and no lifts may be done where the man lifts his partner above his head with extended arms. They have three programs, a Compulsory Dance, a Short Dance, and a Free Dance.\

\--

I've debated about how much to add in terms of jumps and spins so that you know what's going on without it being overexplain-y. If you guys wants more information, please let me know. I'm happy to oblige.

I've not added all the jumps and spins here, but will add to this list as the elements are mentioned in the story.

For chapter one:

A triple flip is a jump that takes off while the skater is going backwards. They get their momentum by digging their toepick (the little jagged part at the front of the blade) into the ice and propelling themselves into the air three times.

An axel is the only figure skating jump that takes off facing forward. it is hard to learn because you must add a half rotation in order to land the jump facing backward. Therefore, a single axel is actually a one and a half rotation in the air. Sherlock does a double axel in this chapter, which is two and a half rotations.

A scratch spin is a one-foot spin. Not very difficult, and skaters do them a lot to end their program (they go very fast and it looks impressive).

\--

Torvill and Dean, who are briefly mentioned in chapter one, are the only British skaters I know off the top of my head. They were very famous ice dancers who won all sorts of national and international medals in the 1980's, including a gold in 1984 (where they received the highest score of all time up until that point). They came out of retirement ten years later to compete in the 1994 Olympics, where they earned a bronze. Their most famous program was to "Bolero," and it is seriously worth YouTubing.

\--

A note on the judging system: I'm going to try to keep my references to it as minimal as possible because explaining it might make my head explode. Hahaha.

\--

If you have questions on anything, please let me know! I am more than happy to explain.


	2. Chapter 1

John Watson stared at the scoring sheet. A neat row of ones sat to the right of his name. He huffed out a sigh, nodding once to himself.

“Hardly a surprise, eh?” Mary asked from behind him, cradling two steaming paper cups of tea. She handed one over to him and then took a sip from hers, grimacing. “The stuff they sell over at the snack bar is complete shite. Congratulations, by the way. Every judge placed you first?”

He tried to smile, but it came off as more of a grimace. “Yep. Looks like I’m going to Nationals.”

“Like there was any doubt.” 

A timid looking teenager slowly approached the sheet of paper hanging on the wall, followed by a veritable entourage—coach, choreographer, mother, father, little sister—and Mary gave the boy a grin before grabbing John’s arm and pulling him out of the way. They watched as the kid’s face lit up, and he turned to hug his coach, engulfed in her absurdly oversized coat.

Mary nodded in his direction. “Must have been the kid who got second. You’ll see him at Nationals, too, I suppose.”

“How did I get here, Mary?” John asked. He took a sip of the tea she’d given him. She was right—it _was_ shite. “Five hours on the ice, six days a week, for over twenty years. Two time national champion, and I had to go to a qualifying event to earn a spot to compete in the championships. Couldn’t even manage a bye.”

“Oh, John, you’ve been out of the singles game for too long for that. And you won those titles in pairs, you know, not singles.”

He nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t think I could forget that, what with you still following me around. What can I do to convince you to get back out on the ice with me again?”

Mary frowned into her cup, and his mistake was immediately evident. He’d meant it as a joke, but that didn’t make it any better. They didn’t often discuss what had happened, and with good reason; it was a sore subject, even after four years. 

She cut him off before he could muster up his words. “Well, I’d need you to works on your triple flip, that’s for sure. You barely hung on to that landing out there. You’re lucky you beat those teenagers, old man.”

With a laugh, he flipped her off. “I’m twenty-seven!”

“My God, you’re ancient! They’ll ship you off to the nursing home any day now, I’m sure.”

She bumped her shoulder against his good-naturedly. Still—much like before, it was a remark that hit a bit too close to home. His years off the ice and out of the competition circuit had only served to give way to a wave of newer, younger competitors. Their footwork sequences were fast and difficult, they could do spins in the kind of convoluted positions John could never hope to achieve, and all of them, every single one of them, had a quad. 

“You’re not far off, you know. I mean, look at the kids they’ve got coming out of Japan and Russia, and more of them every year. This is a young person’s sport, now.” He sighed and stared down at his trainers. He hadn’t bothered to change after he’d got off the ice nearly two hours earlier; he’d just shucked off his skates and stuffed them in his bag. His shoes looked silly paired with spandex of his outfit’s trousers. “I’m just—do you think I’m delusional? Getting back into the game, after everything that’s happened? I don’t even have a coach anymore.”

Mary took a step closer. She plucked the paper cup from his hand and dumped it into a nearby bin, her own following it quickly. Her hands now free, she reached up and grabbed John by the shoulders, yanking him forward until they were eye-to-eye. Her voice was steady as she said, “You, John Watson, are a phenomenal skater. It was a privilege being your partner all those years, and now it is a privilege to cheer for you from the stands as your friend. You are not delusional. You are wonderful.” 

He blinked, throat suddenly tight. “Thank you, Mary.”

She smiled at him, and added, “Except for that wonky triple flip, of course. We really need to work on that. Speaking of, I have an idea about a coach…”

\--

“I swear to God, Sherlock, if you don’t calm down, Lestrade is going to refuse to coach you anymore.”

Sherlock reached for his water bottle, taking a deep gulp. “Good. He’s useless.”

Mike let out a sigh that seemed to imply the entirety of the world’s woes rested upon his shoulders. Being a sports agent was a difficult job to begin with; being _Sherlock Holmes’s_ agent was nigh impossible. “Look, I know you don’t actually care, but as your agent, I don’t recommend you fire your coach a few weeks before Nationals.”

“Why not?” Sherlock did a deep knee bend. As he came up, he brought up his skate-clad foot and put it on the wall, then bent over to stretch. “Surely that would attract some attention, gain some press. And what’s that saying about there being no such thing as bad press?”

“That’s it. That’s exactly the saying.”

Sherlock switched legs. “Oh, I thought I’d deleted it.”

Mike blinked in confusion, and then sat down heavily on the bench in the hockey box. He shrugged his coat around himself more tightly. No more figure skaters after this, he promised himself. He’d find himself a phenom from a sport that was _warm_. Beach volleyball, maybe.

“Well, that idiom is a lie. You’re a few weeks out of the most important national championships of your career, a competition you’ve only been to once before.”

“Yes, and I won it.” 

“Oh, God. Spare me your cockiness, please. This is an _Olympic year_ , need I remind you. You’ve already a reputation for being difficult, and now you have had a very public row with your coach about choreography, of all things. It makes sponsors antsy when they hear things like that.” Mike pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t lose another sponsor because of your attitude, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pushed away from the wall, gliding backward. “I’ve told you before,” he said, going into a scratch spin. He came out on a flowing outside edge. “None of that matters to me. The only important thing is—“

“The skating, I know, but Sherlock—“

“Can’t we have these little chats by phone, Mike? Or better yet, by text? You know I prefer to text.”

“We’ve tried that in the past, but you always ignored my—“ Mike watched helplessly as Sherlock took off, doing a quick warm up lap around the perimeter of the rink. He let out a heavy sigh. “Calls.”

From his place in the box, Mike watched Sherlock glide across the ice. He did a few waltz jumps to warm up, and then went straight into a double axel. He had perfect technique, from the upward thrust of his knee, to the tight two-and-a-half revolutions in the air, to the deep knee bend and backward flowing edge. If only Sherlock were a little less talented, Mike thought wistfully, so that he could quit.

It would be stupid to do so, he knew. Sherlock was one of the rising stars of skating; he was the first British singles skater to actually medal on the Grand Prix circuit in only God knew how many years. Everyone had thought he was a lock on the Final until he’d been forced to withdraw from the NHK Trophy due to illness. Still, in his first season as a senior, Sherlock Holmes had made an impression, and it was more than anyone else had managed in a long time; he had the makings of an international star unseen in Britain since Torvill and Dean.

It was a shame he was such a cock.

Mike let himself out of the box and started to make his way back to the lobby. It would be warmer there. Once he’d thawed a bit, he would call Greg Lestrade and clear up Sherlock’s latest hissy fit. 

Then, he would research beach volleyball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help it. I just fucking love ice skating.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are your figure skating fun facts for this chapter!
> 
> The levels of figure skating: There are nine levels of figure skating, and you have to pass several tests to move up from one level to the next. The two levels mentioned in today's chapter are "junior" and "senior," which are the eighth and ninth levels, respectively. Senior level skaters are the ones you have been watching in the Olympics. :)
> 
> Junior skaters have a whole international scene that is sort of like prep work for their senior debut. There are Junior Nationals, Junior Worlds, and even a Junior Grand Prix. Most skaters stay there a season or two.
> 
> A note on the ages of figure skaters: it's different for men and women. If you are a lady and you want to be a figure skater, you should definitely be competing at a senior level by some time in your teens. A lot of lady figure skaters make very young debuts--anywhere between 14 and 18. You also are considered "old" much younger for women. It's sad but true: women start to be judged as "too old" around 24 or 25. There are women who continue skating after that, for sure, and some who continue to be competitive (Carolina Kostner of Italy is 26, for example). They are the exception that proves the rule, sadly.
> 
> Men make their debuts a bit later--usually in their late teens or early twenties. They can compete into their mid twenties. John is 27 in this fic, and while that's certainly not an unheard of age for a male figure skater, he's definitely on the latter half of the scale.
> 
> Let me know if you have any specific questions on things in this chapter!

“I’m sorry, Mary, but I can’t. I just can’t.”

Mary huffed out an impatient sigh and glanced to her left. John’s eyes were trained out the phone in her hand, a frown painting deeper and deeper lines around his mouth as Dimmock kept talking, unaware that he was on speaker phone.

“It’s nothing personal, you realize. I like John. I always have! But—a month to Nationals, and he’s looking for a coach? Are you mad? And what with everything that happened a few years ago—“

“Yes, Dimmock, no need for reminders. I was there, remember?” Mary cut him off, glaring at Dimmock’s name on the screen as if it would make it better. “Do you have any leads, anything at all?”

Dimmock exhaled, causing a crackle of static through the line. “You might try Lestrade. I saw Mike Stamford the other day, and he was practically begging Lestrade not toss Sherlock Holmes out on his arse.”

John snorted, unable to stop himself. “Right. Like anyone would quit on _Sherlock Holmes_ right before Nationals.”

Silence, then: “Am I on speaker?”

“Oh, geez, sorry, but I have to run,” Mary spoke quickly, drowning out Dimmock’s sounds of protest. “Thanks for chatting and for the tip about Lestrade!”

She ended the call before Dimmock could get another word out and then turned her glare toward John. “You couldn’t keep quiet for a single phone call?”

“I’m sorry!” He rubbed at the back of his neck, slumping forward. Mary’s yellow living room was far too cheerful for him. He wanted to sink into her couch and never move again. “It’s just—what the hell was I thinking, coming back to this? No one is going to stand in line to work with some washed up has-been who hasn’t competed in singles in,” he paused and tried to do the math in his head, quickly giving up, “far too long.”

She hesitated for a moment before sitting beside him, reaching up to pat his shoulder. He leaned into her touch, pressing his forehead against her upper arm, and she broke into a grin despite herself. “Chin up, love. It’s not as though you _need_ a coach. It’s not a requirement, you know.”

“True, but I’d still feel better if I had one,” John sighed.

Not that it would do any good, he added silently. It was one thing to qualify for Nationals—John had never had any fear he wouldn’t. Despite the injuries that had plagued him since the incident four years earlier, he was a veteran competitor up against a herd of schoolboys who had only just passed their senior free test. Not that they weren’t talented, of course. Quite the contrary: of the competitors John had watched from his group, he’d been impressed by their abilities and was sure that many of them had bright futures ahead of them.

Still, they were green. Hell, most of them didn’t even have a solid triple axel. In short: they were young. And by figure skating standards, that was one thing John was definitely not.

It had been one of the rare instances in which his age was not a detriment to his skating.

“I should pull out of the competition,” he said. He stared down at Mary’s floor. Her carpet was cream-coloured, and he wondered when she had become so settled, so mature, and why he had never followed that same path. Here she was, in her own home, while he’d pissed away what he’d earned in his career just trying to get back to the top. “If I were smart, that’s what I would do.”

Mary smacked his arm lightly, her face in a determined frown. “What’s got into you? You never talk like this.”

“I’m a month out of Nationals, and I have no coach, no quad, and no chance of—“

He cut himself off. He didn’t need to say it; they both knew why he wasn’t going to pull out of the competition.

 _The Olympics_. Every person to put on a pair of boots dreamed that they would one day make it to that arena, face that challenge, and come away a champion. John had always thought he’d get there with Mary, and then at Nationals during an Olympic year, things had gone suddenly south. He closed his eyes and the images flashed, bright and horrid; he could remember every detail of that horrible moment on the ice, and all the horrible moments that followed in the months after.

Vancouver and the 2010 Olympics had passed him by, and he’d thought that that was that. He’d missed his chance. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, and years of physical therapy, followed by a groin injury, followed by _more_ physical therapy, followed by tendonitis, followed by a flare up on his shoulder pain, followed by—it was safe to say that the past few years had not been kind to John or his skating career.

But he was in shape, now; or, at least, the best shape he’d been in since 2010. The shoulder still pained him, occasionally. The leg more often, although his physical therapist Ella swore to him that that particular injury was all in his head.

He’d just thought to himself: why not? What harm was there in trying? There was only one spot for a male figure skater in the Olympics. He and Mary had done well on the international scene, all those years ago, but the Brits hadn’t had a real skater they could get behind in years. Before the previous year’s Nationals, John might have thought he had just a good of a chance as anyone else.

And then Sherlock Holmes had happened to the skating world.

John had never met the kid, of course. A new 21 and only in his second senior season, it had been impossible not to track his meteoric rise to the top of the skating world.

It would take a miracle to beat him, John knew, and he wasn’t the kind of person who deluded himself into thinking that he would be so lucky. If he were honest, nothing ever happened to him.

“Even if I don’t completely embarrass myself, I still have no chance of winning.” He rubbed a hand across his face, exhaling heavily through his nose. “And I know what you’re going to say, that winning isn’t everything, but—this is it, my last chance to be an Olympian.”

Mary set her mouth into a tight line and nodded once. “Right. I’ll call Lestrade, then.”

“What? Mary—“

“We can at least see if he has a moment sometime in the next few weeks. Nationals are a month away, but maybe he can squeeze in a half hour to watch your quad.” She patted his cheek. “Who knows? Perhaps he’ll find a way to convince you to stop dropping your shoulder so that you can actually land the damn thing.”

He flipped her off and she laughed. Standing up, she asked, “Tea?”

He nodded. “Please.”

As she left the room, bustling about to get their tea ready, John considered what she had said. He knew Greg casually, having seen him around competitions for years. John had even faced a few of Greg’s skaters, back in his late teens when he’d still been competing in singles. At nineteen, his career had been going nowhere fast, so he’d gone the way of all struggling male singles skaters and started searching for a pairs partner. It had taken months before his coach had found Mary Morstan, whose partner had decided to quit and go back to school. From the first time they had taken the ice together, John knew he’d discovered someone special; they’d managed a third place finish at Nationals after only eight months together, and John had quit singles soon after.

He hadn’t spoken to Greg in more years than he could recall. He wasn’t even sure the man would remember him, let alone be willing to do him such an enormous favour. Mary was right, though—what did it hurt to ask? The worst he could say was no, and if that happened, John’s situation was be exactly what it was now.

Which was pretty much hopeless. If only that damned Sherlock Holmes kid hadn’t shown up!

\--

Lestrade watched wearily as his star skater argued with the choreographer in fluent Russian.

“What’s she saying?” He asked, not actually expecting a reply. Sherlock was prickly at the best of times, but he’d been unbearable since the shouting matches had started with Tatiana last week. He stood on the ice, pointing at a particular corner and gesticulating wildly. Tatiana’s response was clipped and dismissive, and Sherlock practically growled.

Sherlock turned to him, hands on hips. “This woman is a moron,” he said in English.

“I speak English, too, you arse,” Tatiana interrupted, eyes narrowed.

“Tati, Sherlock—you two have to stop doing this. I don’t understand what the issue is.” Lestrade ran a hand over his face and tried to remember all the reasons Mike Stamford have given him not to quit on Sherlock Holmes. It had all seemed so sensible on the phone the night before. Now, however, it was taking all his will power not to run for the door. “What’s the matter with the choreography, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She keeps _adding_ things—ridiculous, idiotic gestures. I hate it. It’s sloppy and detracts from the skating. And she just said that I’m not _feeling the music_.” He sneered, his lip curling. “Maybe she ought to take a second look at my program component scores, if she doubts my performance.”

Lestrade shrugged. “You mean the program component scores that have been consistently going down throughout the last year?”

Tatiana sent Sherlock a smug look as he stared, slack-jawed, at his coach. She waved a hand in Lestrade’s direction. “He knows what is true. You are not cute anymore, you must skate with _passion_.”

If it were possible, Sherlock looked _more_ affronted. “I was never cute.”

“No,” Lestrade agreed. He leaned up against the wall. Inside his skates, his feet were going numb, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down someplace warm. “But you were a new face. You came from nowhere, spent barely any time on the Junior circuit. You were novel last year, but this year you have to be more than that. You have to show growth, maturity.”

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose. “I don’t understand why I can't just _skate_.”

“Because you skate like robot,” Tatiana sniffed. “Like you have no soul. You must _feel_ music. You use such pretty music, and yet you skate like you do not hear it!”

“Because none of that matters to me! What I care about are the elements,” he insisted. “The physics, the mathematics of it all. That is what makes skating interesting. That is what makes it worth watching! Not all of this,” he twirled his hand about, “nonsense.”

“I don’t understand why you do this if you see absolutely no magic or poetry in it,” Lestrade said. He pushed away from the wall and glided to Sherlock, grasping his young student’s shoulders. “I know you care about the technical side of things, but there is more to skating than perfect technique.”

Sherlock dug his toe pick into the ice and pushed himself back, away from Lestrade’s grip. He began to do a lazy circle of back crossovers, launching himself into the air for a perfect triple loop. His landing position—deeply bent knee, straight back—was textbook. He then surprised Lestrade by doing a quick three turn to gain speed and adding on a beautiful triple toe loop.

He was so busy gaping that he barely noticed Sherlock skating back toward him, scowl in place. He motioned behind him, where he had just landed his combination. “You see? I do that and you gawk at me because you know that it’s perfect. Do you want me to explain to you how I do what I do, or why? Because I can tell you, I haven’t got where I am by _feeling_ things. I think while I skate, I make tactical decisions. I’m aware of every inch of my body.”

“Is worth nothing without every inch of your soul, as well,” Tatiana chimed in. She stared back, calm and level, when Sherlock shot her a furious look over his shoulder.

“I don’t believe in the concept of a soul,” he stated plainly.

Tati rolled her eyes. “That explains your skating.”

Sherlock glared and then turned back to Lestrade, arms crossed over his chest. “Can I fire her?”

“No. Just…” Lestrade motioned toward the corner the squabbling had begun in. “You’re debuting this program at Nationals, so just do what she says. No excuses. We can work out the kinks while we prep for the Olympics, but for now, let’s trust the veteran choreographer who has been on the payroll for three separate Olympic champions, okay?”

“You’re horrid. I ought to fire you.”

“ _You’re_ horrid. I ought to quit.”

Letting out a deep, long sigh just so Lestrade knew how very displeased he was, Sherlock turned and moved to the center of the ice. A moment later, Tatiana joined him. He struck his opening pose and began to mark the first part of his program without music while Tati followed behind, shouting instructions in rapid-fire Russian.

In his pocket, Lestrade’s mobile buzzed. He fished it out in order to shut it off—he was technically getting paid to train Sherlock, despite the fact that Sherlock ignored him and his instructions about ninety percent of the time. The name that flashed on his screen, however, gaze him pause.

He unlocked his phone, placing it against his ear. “Mary Morstan. It’s been years.”

She laughed. It was nearly drowned out by the surrounding noise of the rink. “It has. And now I have a favour to ask.”

Lestrade watched as Sherlock landed a perfect triple axel and then began squabbling with Tati about arm placements.

“Well,” he said, deciding he had nothing to lose, “what can I do for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been some concerns about this being a WIP. Good news: I have the entire fic plotted out from start to finish, and I'm in love with it, so there. Hahaha. So, no need to worry! I will try to update at least once every two weeks.
> 
> Let me know what you think, either here or at my tumblr!


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sal chow is pronounced "sow cow" (it rhymes). When John says "quad sal" he is saying it "quad sow."
> 
> Quadruple jumps are most commonly seen in the men's competition. There are a few ladies out there who rock 'em, but not many and because of that they've never been a hyper competitive part of ladies figure skating. What I mean is: a female skater can skate and win a major international competition without doing one.
> 
> A man, however, can't. Well, mostly. It's certainly a hell of a lot harder. Quadruples are a huge part of men's skating--if someone wants to medal at a big name event, they NEED a quad.
> 
> A note about cheating jumps: if you cheat on a jump, that means your foot touches the ice before you have finished rotating the jump, and you finish the rest of the rotation on your blade. If your jump has less than a quarter turn cheat, it can be counted as a full rotation. Anything more than that, however, is downgraded to the next jump down (so a quad with a half turn cheat would be counted as a triple).
> 
> The judging system is REALLY hard to explain because it is literally bananas, but here is a rough idea of how jumps (and spins, footwork sequences, etc.) are judged: each element is worth a certain amount of points. If you complete the element, you get those base points. Judges then have the option to add up to three points if they thought you did a really great job. They also have the option to give you negative points if the jump counts but didn't go so well.
> 
> So, if a skater attempts a quad, but lands with a half turn cheat, it becomes a triple. That jump loses base value because it is now easier than what you had planned (a triple is worth less than a quad). The judges can then further punish you for frigging it up and take away MORE points if they so wish.
> 
> If you were paying attention to this years' supposed cheating scandal: this is why Yu Na Kim had a score of "0" from one judge. She didn't get an ACTUAL zero--that judge didn't award her extra points.
> 
> Confused yet? YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
> 
> The current scoring system was enacted because of--surprise, surprise, a cheating scandal from the 2002 Olympics. It's supposed to make the scoring more fair. It fails. Oh, it's got all the right intentions, but when it comes down to it: skating is judged subjectively, and therefore it is very easy for judges to cheat.
> 
> What else? Oh, the John/Mary fall described is heavily based on the very famous fall by Totmianina & Marinin at 2004 Skate America. It was HORRIFIC. I am not kidding when I say: do yourselves a favor. Do NOT look it up. Pairs accidents are the worst.
> 
> And that's all I can think of for now...let me know if you have questions!

The ice is smooth and perfect, completely flawless. John yawns and picks up his mobile where he’s left it on the wall that separates the ice from the hockey box. 6:03 AM. In other words: way too early. He drops his phone and pushes away from the wall, rubbing at his eyes.

It’s been years since he got up this early to skate. He and Mary were never ones to be early risers; it was more difficult to share the more crowded ice in the afternoons and evenings, but they’d managed. Still, he had to admit that there was something calming about being the only one on the rink, not having to fight anyone for space.

He did a few quick laps around the perimeter, trying to get his blood pumping. After his third time around, he flipped around to skate backwards and launched himself into a single axel. The crunch of the ice beneath his skate was satisfying to hear, and he grinned. 

He’d arrived in London the night before, taking the train in just after Mary got through to Greg Lestrade. It had taken some begging and pleading, but eventually Greg had agreed to work John in a couple of times before Nationals as long as he was in London bright and early the next morning and prepared to pay a rather hefty sum. 

An hour of dithering later, John had packed a bag and called his sister. Harry was about as pleased to have her little brother staying with her as he was to be there, but he didn’t have any other options in London. He had mates in London, but no one with whom he was close enough to ask to crash on their couch for the next three weeks. Harry was obligated to let him stay after that time he had come down to visit her after Clara had left and she’d had too much to drink and had ended the night by vomiting on his sweater.

It was not the proudest moment of either of the Watson children.

Still, there were worse things than a few weeks on Harry’s lumpy sofa. Doing poorly at a televised national sporting event was one of them.

John picked up some speed, bending his knees and digging into the ice for his back crossovers. He visualized the jump before he launched himself into the air—a step forward onto his right foot, a three turn to flip him backwards and onto his inside edge and then a jump. Arms in, legs tightly crossed, and then just four quick rotations to a safe landing.

He stepped onto his foot. He did the three turn, launched himself into the air and—

A spectacular crash. He groaned as he slid across the ice on his bum. It had been years since he’d actively practiced his quadruple salchow. Back when he’d been a singles competitor, quads had been a definite advantage to all the skaters who could do them, but not a requirement. At Nationals, it would be possible for him to stand on the podium without landing one; the only British man who had managed to land a quad in competition was, of course, Sherlock Holmes, and if no one else even tried, then that would make the race for silver and bronze a bit easier.

Internationally, however, skaters were sunk without one, and John knew that. Once upon a time, he’d been able to land a quad sal—never in competition, but then he’d stopped skating singles before he’d really made a name for himself in that particular event, anyway. The only quads done in pairs skating were the particularly daring couples who went for throw quadruple jumps, and he and Mary had never attempted that feat. She’d pushed for it, confident that she could land it cleanly, but he’d always hesitated, erring on the side of caution and safety.

How ironic _that_ turned out to be.

Picking himself off the ice, John brushed off the snow he’d managed to get all over his trousers. He turned around and pushed himself to try again, circling half the rink in order to get the necessary speed. This time, when he launched himself into the air, he played it a bit more cautiously. His blade came in contact with the ice, but he was not fully rotated. The jump was a half turn cheated.

“You didn’t wrap your leg tight enough,” a voice called from the edge of the rink. “It was too loose for you to make the rotation. You’d get a deduction if you—“

John rolled his eyes, turning slowly. “Yes, thank you. I _am_ aware of how the judging system wor…”

The rest of his sentence evaporated in his throat. This wasn’t just some skater— _Sherlock Holmes_ was sitting in the hockey box, sipping something from a travel mug and giving him an absolutely disdainful look. Apparently, the botched quad had offended him personally.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” John rasped out. He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could.

Sherlock sniffed, taking another sip. “Yes. And _you_ must be the reason Lestrade moved our lesson. Very inconvenient of you.”

There wasn’t a good way to respond to that; after all, it was Lestrade’s call when he met with his skaters, not John’s. Pointing that out didn’t seem like the best idea, however. Although John had never met Sherlock before, he’d seen interviews, and the young man was, at best, prickly.

“Your being here is inconvenient for your alcoholic brother, as well,” Sherlock said, casually.

John exhaled all his breath in one swift motion. He knew he was gaping, and that he looked like an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He’d never been so simultaneously offended and curious in his entire life.

“Sister, actually,” he replied, feeling a bit of pleasure course through his veins when Sherlock scowled at the correction. “Although I’m not sure how you knew that much at all. Have you been spying on me, or something?”

That would have been flattering, if the current National champ thought he was a big enough threat to be worth investigating. Unfortunately, Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing the implication. “I looked at your mobile.”

“You—what? But that’s my personal property!”

John burst into motion, quickly crossing the ice, spraying snow when he stopped abruptly. His phone was precisely where he had left it, or so it seemed. He scooped it up, but there were no noticeable differences. Sherlock’s poker face betrayed nothing.

“You can’t just touch my mobile,” John insisted as he cradled the phone close to his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I touched it for all of a second while you were busy being so distracted that you didn’t even notice you weren’t alone. Do you plan on being long? You’re using my ice.”

“I didn’t realize you owned it,” John shot back.

Unimpressed, Sherlock smirked. “Really? Then you’ve clearly been out of the game for awhile. How long has it been since that fall, Mr. Watson?”

It was impossible to hide from Sherlock’s gaze. He had the kind of eyes that seemed to follow you everywhere without ever giving the appearance of moving; they shone blue-green in the fluorescent overhead lights, and John could feel himself shrinking. He closed his eyes tight against the panic rising in his throat, fighting back images of the lift, the bobble, Mary crashing down, her blood on the ice—

John sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly. He felt his leg tremble and pressed more weight upon it, refusing to give into the temptation to sit down and rest it. There was nothing wrong with his leg, he knew, and he refused to act otherwise.

“I’m surprised you remember that far back,” he said, fighting for each word. “What are you, twelve?”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Interesting. I really thought you were going to have an anxiety attack, but you fought it off. You’re also warring against your psychosomatic leg injury.”

Again, with the strange insights. Guessing that he had a sibling was easy enough—if Sherlock knew who he was, which he apparently did, if he remembered the accident, then guessing that the name engraved on the back was related to him was not a far leap in logic. There were other things, however, that demanded explanation. How had he known about Harry’s alcoholism? How could he tell that John’s leg pain was all in his head?

John had always had a very expressive face; it had served him well in skating. He connected with the audience, he involved them in the program. The scoring system, which weighed program components the same as the technical scores, he and Mary had always thrived. It was what he had hoped would carry him through Nationals, before Sherlock Holmes had turned up and ruined those particular plans.

The same Sherlock Holmes was now staring at him, reading every nuance in his expression. There was something in the way he looked—it wasn’t the way normal people did it, eyes passing over everything. John felt as if this relative stranger, this _kid_ , could read him as if John’s life story were written in bold across his face.

“How did you—I mean, first Harry, and then my injury…?” He couldn’t even find the anger necessary to sound accusatory. He could hear the awe in his tone and didn’t care.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You’re not angry?”

“I’m curious.”

“The marks around the outlet for charging,” Sherlock said as he held out his head. It took a second for John to understand. He gave the other man his mobile, who promptly flipped it around so he could point out the scratches. “She fumbles when she goes to plug it in at night. As for your leg, I have to admit, it’s less impressive.”

John could hardly hold back his grin. “You _did_ research me.”

“Oh, don’t be flattered. I researched everyone in the competition.”

He was flattered anyway. “And?”

“Former pairs skater who made headlines more for the vicious tumble his partner took when an old leg injury flared up around Nationals. Never found another partner, never even looked, but still close with the old one, a Miss Morstan. The same Miss Morstan who briefly dated an idiot coach named Dimmock, a good friend of my coach.” He continued to stare in the same way, making John feel transparent. “You’ve briefly toyed with returning to singles throughout the years but have never launched a serious campaign to return to competition until this year, which I can only conclude means you are interested in taking my spot on the Olympic team.”

Despite himself, John grinned. “ _Your_ ice, _your_ spot. You’re very possessive, did you know?”

Sherlock started to return the smile, but it froze on his face and was then deliberately wiped away. He was quiet for a moment, and then said, “I don’t understand. You’re not angry. Why aren’t you angry?”

It would have been easy to be angry, John thought. After all, rehashing the past four years was hardly his preferred pastime. Still, there was something refreshing about being around someone who didn’t feel the need to dance around it. Yes, he’d dropped Mary. Yes, he’d wrestled his guilt was sitting at her bedside the two nights she’d stayed in hospital. Yes, she had decided to stop skating afterwards. Yes, he knew that coming back was inevitably going to stir up old scandal.

So why put himself through this, he wondered. He wasn’t going to win Nationals, wasn’t going to go to the Olympics as he had dreamed he would the very first time he tried on a pair of skates. Looking up at Sherlock Holmes, National Champion, who was so young and hungry for gold—it was tough to believe he’d ever been like that, that he’d ever dreamed he could be like that again.

He’d known he wouldn’t get gold even as he’d registered for regionals, even as he’d gone on to sectionals. He’d kept going. Why?

Hope springs eternal, he thought. Everyone had an off day, including Sherlock Holmes, and even if he didn’t—well, there was nothing wrong with wanting one last crack at the podium before he turned professional. Maybe he could convince Mary to come back and do a few shows with him. Stars on Ice, or something.

“What’s there to be angry about? You haven’t told me anything I don’t know.”

Sherlock blinked several times, obviously confused, and then nodded. “John Watson, you are at least seven times more interesting than expected. Possibly as high as nine.”

“As high as nine? Best not say such things. It’ll go to my head.” John laughed and pushed away from the wall. At the far end of the rink, he could see Lestrade entering through the front doors. The man moved more stiffly than John remembered, and although he was too far away for John to make out his face, his body language was clear: annoyance.

Twenty seconds later, he burst into the hockey box. “Sherlock! I specifically told you not to come down here and bother Watson.”

“I’m not bothering him,” Sherlock huffed. John had never seen anyone sip tea indignantly before.

“Right, like I believe _that_.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Sorry for this one. Ignore everything he says. He’s only trying to intimidate you because you’re the only skater in the running who has ever enjoyed any sort of international success, even if it was in pairs.”

“Lestrade!”

Sherlock’s hiss of anger was lost on John, who laughed through everything. “You needn’t worry. We were just chatting. Sherlock seems quite good at reading people.”

Lestrade’s jaw went slack in perfect shock. “ _Chatting_?”

“Yep. Now, I was hoping we could talk a bit about my quad—“

“He only wraps tight enough if he drops his shoulder, but if he remembers his shoulders he cheats it horribly,” Sherlock diagnosed. “I can stay and help.”

“But…no, you can’t.” Lestrade couldn’t seem to find the words. He stuck his hands in his long, grey overcoat. He lowered his voice and leaned into Sherlock’s personal space. “He’s your competition.”

Sherlock mock-whispered his reply. “Yes, and I think his ears still work, as well.”

“Oh bloody—John, you don’t have to put up with this bastard. He’s a great skater, but a terrible man, and I won’t inflict him upon you.”

John watched the banter between them, smiling. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “I was under the impression you wanted to skate.”

Sherlock nodded cautiously, suspiciously. “Yes.”

“Great. Then go get your boots on. There’s plenty of ice to go around. That way, whenever Greg and I are done, you can have your lesson.” John ran his fingers through his hair. “No running commentary on my technique, though.”

“As if you could stop me,” Sherlock replied. He turned and began to flounce out of the box, pausing only once he’d reached the mouth of the door. He looked over his shoulder at John, the same, searching look from before on his face. “221B Baker Street.”

“What?”

“My home. That’s the address. You’re welcome to stay there, if you’d like to escape your alcoholic sister.”

John tried not to gape. He was not particularly successful. He skated a few strokes closer, his eyes trained on Sherlock. “Did you just—“

“I did. You’re remotely interesting, you don’t mind my deductions, and you are not offended by the truth. I don’t think you’d annoy me too greatly.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, bringing his coat higher up on his neck before popping the collar. It made him look…strangely cool.

John stuttered over his reply, his mouth refusing to cooperate. “I…well, but Harry—“

“It’s fine,” Sherlock interrupted immediately. He continued out of the hockey box and, following the long edge of the rink back to the doors that led to the lobby. He walked so quickly his coat whipped behind him, and he never once looked back.

Lestrade stared blankly. “The fuck did you say to him?”

“Practically nothing!”

“That’s…the most human I’ve ever seen him. You need to live with him!” He looked in the direction Sherlock had walked, but the other man was gone. Lestrade sighed. “Do you think you could get him to do that again?”

“What? I didn’t—“ John closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. When he opened them again, Lestrade was looking at him expectantly. “Do you think we could just…work on my quad?”

“These lessons are free if you get him to act like that more often.”

John furrowed his brow. “Like what? He was rude, abrasive—“

“Yes, but so much less so than normal! You’ve no idea. He’s been a terror lately. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s nervous about the Olympics, and it’s making him a bear to work with.”

Pressure could do that to people. John considered the offer, then shrugged. “You don’t need to bribe me to be friends with him. He seems…”

“Abrupt?”

“No. Well, yes, but I was going to say…” John bit his lip, trying to find the word. “Intriguing.”

Lestrade hummed his reply, his gaze suddenly turning suspicious. It was difficult not to wince under it; Lestrade’s train of though was both very obvious and very incorrect, but if John denied it, it would make his interest seem even more like… _interest_.

Which it decidedly was _not_.

John cleared his throat. “Right. So my quad sal…”

Lestrade nodded. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta on this one. PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU SEE ERRORS!
> 
> Tell me what you thought here or at my tumblr.


	5. Chapter 4

When John got home that afternoon, Harry was sitting on the couch, watching telly with her feet propped up on the coffee table. She looked up at him as she entered, mug of tea in one hand, remote in the other. He waved a hand before propping up his case of skating gear against the wall by the door, and she returned the gesture with a nod of her head. Her eyes were bright and clear; sober, then. Part of John hated himself for being surprised.

“Long day at the rink?” Harry asked. She took a sip of her tea and glanced at the clock on her wall. “You were there all day.”

“Yeah. Met with Lestrade.” 

“Oh?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Land any quads?”

She’d said it to try his patience, he was sure. Hungover, probably. Harry was never pleasant during those. Even before the alcohol had become a problem, even back when they were kids sneaking behind their parents’ backs on the weekends, she’d been a beast every time she ended up on the wrong side of a bender. John took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He refused to let her get to him. “Stood up on a few, but I keep double footing the landing. I got the rotation, though, which is encouraging.”

“That’s good,” she said, and it sounded like she almost meant it. She flicked off the telly using the remote. “You just missed the Doctor Who marathon, unfortunately.”

“Not surprised. The tube was a nightmare on the way back. I just want to take a shower and wash off everyone else’s sweat.”

Harry wrinkled her nose. “Ah, the joys of public transit.” She hesitated, but her mouth formed a firm line, and she added, “Clara said she might drop by tonight.”

John stifled a groan. His muscles were aching, he had the permanent cold of a day in the rink settled into his bones, and he did not want to deal with his sister’s attempt to woo her soon to be ex-wife. True, it was Harry’s house, and he was subject to her hospitality, but still. He was trying to train for the most important event he’d attended in years, and listening to the two of them have it out in the living room was not conducive to peace of mind.

Still, it wasn’t as if he could refuse her. It was her house, after all. “Right,” he said, “I’ll make myself scarce, shall I?”

“There’s a pub round the corner. You could always go and have a few beers. I’m sure she won’t stay long. She never does.”

It was difficult, but John managed not to remind his sister that Clara’s reluctance to stay was not exactly Clara’s fault, as Harry had been the one to cheat, but that didn’t seem prudent. Instead, he nodded, not bothering to tell his sister that he wasn’t drinking with nationals just around the corner.

“Right. I’ll call an old mate, or something.” John said the lie with a straight face. When they were younger, Harry had always been able to see straight through him, but drink must have dulled her senses. “When do you need me out of here?”

Harry looked at the clock again. “Half hour?”

“Jesus, Harry,” John slumped. “Couldn’t you have given me some warning?”

“It’s not my fault you stayed at the rink all bloody day!”

There was no point in arguing. John held his hands up, retreating backward, away from his sister. He’d had even less time to shower if he sat about disagreeing with Harry, and it wouldn’t change what time Clara arrived. He sighed and slunk out of the room, into the guest bathroom down the hall. A hot shower was what he needed, and then directly after that, a cold beer.

He bit back a sigh. No beer for him, not this week. A water, then. John snorted as he shucked off his clothes--he didn’t know why he was bothering to be so careful. It wasn’t like he had a shot at winning Nationals, anyway.

He’d barely stepped under the spray of the water when Harry started pounding on the door. John, with a hand full of shampoo, let out an impatient sigh. “You said I had a half hour!”

“You do, you twat!” Harry yelled back, apparently displeased with John’s annoyance. “The bloody mobile I gave you won’t stop going off. I thought it might be important.”

John shook his hand out under the spray before turning off the water. He grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist and opened the door with a huff. “It’s probably just Mary. You could have answered and told her to bugger off, or something.”

Harry thrust the phone out toward him. “Who is S.H.?”

“What are you on about?” He grabbed the phone. Sure enough, he had seven new text messages, all from a contact he could not remember adding. “I have no idea who this is.”

“Well, it isn’t a leftover contact of mine. Whoever it is uses your name.” She noticed his glare and shrugged. “I couldn’t help but see the last one on your screen. It’s not like I unlocked your phone and checked out each one S.H. sent.”

“Fine, whatever. Just…sod off, I need to finish showering.”

Harry gave him a two fingered salute and walked away, muttering under her breath about ungrateful brothers. John closed the door behind her as he typed in the password for his phone and went into his text messages.

_Dinner at Angelo’s, near Baker street. Come if convenient. SH_

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

_Perhaps I’ll tell you why you’re double footing your quadruple toe loop. SH_

_Passed a crime scene on my way. Looked interesting. SH_

_Scotland Yard is comprised entirely of idiots. Wasn’t it obvious it was the brother because of the tie clip? SH_

_Apparently, my opinion wasn’t appreciated. Was recognized and told to “stick to skating.” Morons. SH_

_The restaurant isn’t that far from where you’re staying, John. I don’t know why it’s taking you so long. Do hurry up. SH_

John frowned as he read through the messages twice. With fingers still damp and clumsy from his shower, he pecked out a reply: _is this sherlock?_

He received a message back almost instantly. _If you are that stupid, I may rescind my invitation to you for both dinner and living arrangements. SH_

Staring at the screen didn’t provide any new illumination as to what in the hell was happening, so John set the mobile on the counter and hopped back into the shower. He bathed quicker than he ever had in his entire life before toweling off and slipping into his robe, which was hanging on the back of the door. He hesitated, then reached under the sink and brought out Harry’s hair gel. It felt ridiculous, but he ran a bit of the product through his hair, making sure it was styled neatly, and then put the gel back in its place. With any luck, he would be able to leave without seeing Harry again. If she noticed, she was sure to comment, and this dinner wouldn’t be like anything she assumed.

Well, probably.

It was difficult to tell, if John were honest with himself. If Sherlock had been any other person, he would have assumed that everything—the banter this morning, the invitation into his home, the texting, the further invitation to dinner—was flirtation, pure and simple. Although John didn’t normally go for blokes, he was a figure skater; he had dabbled, in the past. It had never come to much more than a few heated snogs, groping, and the one time he had unfortunately (for both him and the other man) attempted to give a blow job, but there had been enough experimentation that John knew he couldn’t claim to be entirely heterosexual.

Frankly, the idea of Sherlock making any sort of pass at him would have been quite acceptable to John, had he not been Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t merely that Sherlock was his biggest (or, if John were feeling honest, his only) competition, it was that he was _Sherlock Holmes_. In the brief span of his career, he’d managed to rile up more tension than any of the other skaters John had even known—combined. The kid had a mouth on him, pure and simple.

And what a mouth. Not that John was thinking about that.

Sherlock Holmes was attractive, talented, and interesting, but he was also newly twenty-one and a rising star who had singe-handedly put Britain back on the radar of the figure skating world. _That_ , above all else, was the reason that John knew Sherlock was not flirting with him. He was a young man who was just beginning to flourish, and John, six years older and wiser, was a has been.

John looked into the mirror. Bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, blond hair. Short stature, which was good for singles skating but had made finding a suitable pairs partner a difficulty, all those years ago. He was passably handsome on his best days, and he supposed that was the best he could say for himself.

A dissatisfied frown pulled at the corners of his lips, and he stubbornly fought against it. John brought a hand to his face and felt the catch of his stubble, wondering if he had time to shave. On the counter, his phone buzzed again, the noise of it echoing in the bathroom and making him jump. He reached for the mobile, and read the text on his screen.

_I assume you’re not coming, then. SH_

John sucked in a breath, his fingers tapping out his reply as quickly as they were able. _no, i am. it was just a bloody nightmare getting back to my sister’s from the rink. just got out of the shower now. text me the address._

The address arrived a moment later. John sighed at his stubble, patting at his cheek ruefully, and then headed out of the bathroom. Harry had put his personal bag, stuffed with a random assortment of clothing that John had grabbed as he’d packed with Mary chiding him to hurry up, in her room. He changed quickly, pausing to consider whether or not he should wear jeans or nicer trousers before remembering that this was definitely not a date and slipping into the jeans. He picked the first shirt he saw and refused to glance in the mirror as he headed out the door.

As he emerged into the living room, Harry was setting up a bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table. He sighed, and she glared at him as she wrestled with the cork. “Don’t you start,” she said, flinching as the cork popped free. “It’s just because Clara is coming over. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right. Your solution to fix your marriage to the wife who left you in large part because of your drinking is to invite her over for a drink?” John plucked up his jacket from where he had shucked it coming through the front door and shrugged his arm through the sleeves. The look of surprise and confusion as Harry stared down at the wine made his stomach twist uncomfortably. “Look, not that you asked for it, but if you want my advice, dump that out and just talk to her.”

Harry bit her lip, corkscrew still in hand. “But…”

“Just my advice. Do what you think is best.”

She nodded, looking down at the wine, and John slipped into his shoes. He had no real hope she’d throw it out. More likely than not, she’d stuff the cork back in and hide the bottle under her bed, or something. John loved his sister, but he was a realist. His sister had supposedly been sober for months, and yet Sherlock had deduced her alcoholism by looking at a hand-me-down phone. That did not bode well for her recovery.

John walked out the front door, patting his pocket as he went to make sure he’d grabbed his wallet. The address that Sherlock had given him was, indeed, quite close to wear Harry lived. Ten minutes later, he was outside a little Italian restaurant, where he could see Sherlock Holmes waiting at a table in front of the window, idly playing with his mobile.

He walked inside, stamping his feet against the doormat. It had drizzled on his way over, but this was London, and it was always drizzling. He settled himself in the chair across from Sherlock, taking in Sherlock’s perfectly tailored suit and feeling both underdressed and worried that he had somehow misread the intentions of the entire evening. _Was_ this a date? Was he on a date with the current national champion?

There was something very flattering about that. John sat up a bit straighter.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, “I was in the shower when you started texting me.”

Sherlock eyes stayed glued on his phone. “Hair still damp. You received my messages and decided not to shave in order to save time.” He looked up, the glow from the screen casting a strange light under his features. “Hello, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I have legit had this written for nearly a year.
> 
> The thing is, this chapter was not supposed to end where it does. It was supposed to be much longer and include the entire restaurant scene. But.
> 
> I can't write it. I DON'T KNOW WHY. I have a mental block. I stare at it and think "what should they say to each other in this scene?" and in response my brain just shrugs and then I close the document and go on with my life.
> 
> So: here. Have this. Maybe y'alls enthusiasm (should there be any of you who are still enthusiastic, and it's fine if there isn't) will infect me and suddenly this will stop torturing me. This one scene is honestly the worst case of writer's block I've ever had. I don't recall being this frustrated with a piece of writing in all my life.
> 
> When will this be regularly updated? WHEN IT STOPS BEING THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE.
> 
> Seriously, though, I would like to finish this. The plot itself tickles me (because of course I know exactly what happens until the end, but can I tell you what they talk about in this restaurant scene NO I CAN'T ALSDKJFASDF), and I think it'll be a fun fic in it's entirety. I have a lot going on in my original writing (including PUBLISHING a BOOK, MAYBE???????), so this is not my priority. But! I do care about it, I do want to get to the end, and I do plan to write more. If I can finish that fudging scene. Which, judging by the last year, maybe I can't. Ha.
> 
> Much love to you all! Many thanks for your patience!


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